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Thursday, November 25, 2010

thank you to all the people who read this blog
it started as a way for me to hold myself accountable for my writing
to get over the fear of being judged
to allow myself to write badly
and ultimately to express myself
it is completely self-indulgent, helpful, fun, and at times challenging
and while the idea is to not write for an audience
and to just write what i feel
it has helped me grow to have this select audience or "readership"
it has also helped me stay connected through some very dark times
so in the spirit of thanks, i just want to say thank you to the very special people that read all my melodramatic crap.
xoxoxo,
tony

Monday, November 22, 2010

inspired by Carmen's post on the 2/3 train conductor http://chordstriking.blogspot.com/2010/11/were-doing-monday-folks.html
we're doing christmas folks...
last night in the middle of the giants/eagles game
Mike shot up his hand and exclaimed, "Yes!"
I looked at him and he informed me that in one week from tomorrow (today)
we will have a christmas tree.
My dad is coming this weekend and is allergic to real christmas trees so we are putting off the tree getting a few days later than Mike would prefer.
However that has not stopped him from playing Christmas music every chance he gets.
Mike's Christmas music is pretty extensive with range from Frank Sinatra to Mariah Carey (I think) to Southpark (some annoying cartoon one)
But this year, we both discovered Pandora introducing us to more of Mike's favorites sung in different notes.
Pandora is the gift that unfortunately keeps on giving.
So for the next 5-6 weeks, if you hear me humming a Christmas tune, you will know why...

Friday, November 12, 2010

i'm standing on the corner avoiding eye contact as i see him approach.
he is picking up cigarette butts singing a song about how he is a scavenger.
i don't want to move because i am not scared of him
or maybe i just don't want to see like i'm judging him.
as he passes me he stops and says
"hey bitch"
and for some reason i look at him
maybe alarmed he is going to flick one of those nasty cigarette butts at me
and then he flips me off in my face.
i say nothing, he continues to walk away
and i feel myself begin to shake
i don't know if i'm going to burst into tears or kill him.
i cross the street, stone face
ignoring the people who just witnessed this
ignoring the parents and children i work with
and walk back into work.
i try to drink the soda i just bought
but my hands are trembling.
a weekend out of town never sounded so fucking good.

Monday, November 1, 2010

"we read your poem" she tells me
a couple of years ago at mid-season.
I am shocked that it still exists somewhere.
"Really?" I beam "I can't believe you still have it."
"Well, it meant so much to us."
They smile and continue to tell me how other young girls asked,
"Who wrote that?"
It is perhaps the best I have felt in a long time and on my subway ride home I wonder
why I am not a teacher?
Is it because my Dad once told me it would be the most tragic story ever?
Me trading in writing to become a teacher.
Or is it because people tell me I would be good at it and so I'm afraid.
What will that mean for my writing?
Perhaps one is complimented by the other.
My writing a poem never meant so much as it did tonight.